


Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Emotional Distress

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Romano's Filthy Vocabulary, also lots of animals cross it, as well as shortcuts and double-backs, spain controls the weather, the road of Spain’s mind takes many twists and turns, where did all of this headcanon come from?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now we go to our friendly local weatherman, the Kingdom of Spain!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Emotional Distress

They told him a hobby would be good for him.

They told him that even if they _could_ pull another chair for him into the meeting room, into every meeting room, into every single room he wandered through, that they couldn’t afford him napping and chatting during trade sessions. Policy reviews. Even if those _were_ all incredibly boring, and even if he _had_ written the book on Spanish politics.

The Kingdom of Spain _was_ Spanish politics.

And the book was something that he’d thought very clever when he had been drunk in 1857, except even nations aged and in recent times he’d wondered if he should agree to have it surgically removed. Who knew the inks back then weren’t good for the skin?

Of course, they didn’t say it like that.

The part about not visiting so often, not the part about the smudgy tattoo. His King liked to bring the smudgy tattoo up whenever Spain laughed off the mentions of his personal life. Because Spain _did_ have a personal life. It was a riveting one, full of lots of naps, and sunshiny afternoons, and sangria and football. It was full of grocery bills that were maybe a little more expensive than he liked, and empty houses, and rowdy neighbors. It was a life full of millions of lives, really, and in general, whenever he could, full of making everyone nearby, including himself, feel a little bit warmer than if he hadn’t been around. Spain liked how he could even make himself all warm on the inside; it was like sunbathing.

But on the inside.

And.

And what was it… what did they say?

Didn’t say.

Yes, it was something about something they didn’t say! Not the trade secrets, although Spain didn’t think those were very secret to begin with: number one, make deals that benefit the Kingdom of Spain. Number two, increase jobs in the Kingdom of Spain. Number three, make everyone and their sock-sandal combinations wish they could spend a month or so in the Kingdom of Spain on their mandatory vacation time.

Germany’s previous visit had ended with a promise to return Spain’s sunglasses, because while Germany had remembered to bring both a normal UV-blocking pair and a spare, he’d forgotten to bring a _spare_ spare. And between Prussia and Romano, who thought Germany’s sunglasses choices were embarrassing to be on the same continent as, just one spare hadn’t been enough.

That was right. Spain’s dignitaries and politicians and all those other people who kept his body from imploding, those humans hadn’t said anything about his visits to government offices, for a chat or two, in the middle of election season. They hadn’t said anything about Germany’s missing sunglasses either ( _although those had most likely washed out into Portugal’s territory, and Spain didn’t think asking for them back on Germany’s behalf was entirely necessary_ ).

All they had said was: “Sir, a hobby would be good for you.”

In response, he had taken a deep, happy breath, and had continued to nurse his drink and try not to spill it on the documents beneath.

They had tried again. “Mr. Spain, Sir. Your… Your Most Royal- ah… My Kingdom?” That had set him to wondering whether being a kingdom made _him_ a royal. He supposed the answer was ‘yes, sort of’ because he’d grown up with a lot of royal families in his time. He’d spent a lot of time assuring nervous sickly children that they’d do perfectly well as kings and queens, because they were the best of the very best nation ( _empire, at the time_ ) on earth, and if _he_ could take care of the Kingdom of Spain every day, then it couldn’t be so bad!

Reassurances of that kind had often been accompanied by silly faces and fake swordplay; Spain had loved it. His favorite time with his monarchs was when they were still small. When they were still innocent, mostly, and carefree, mostly, and adorable, entirely.

Spain wondered if his hobby could involve that, somehow.

Except he had thought that it already did, to be honest. Babysitting didn’t end when the nervous, adorable children stopped being so little, put on three-piece suits and began drafting legislation. And the snacks were better in the cabinet rooms.

But.

They had said something strangely close to ‘find a hobby, please, just for a little, we can’t get any work done when you’re around.’ As though it were _Spain’s_ fault that his visits made everyone in the building brighten into a slow summery haze, forgetting their cares, their worries and the impending catastrophes they had been hired to divert. Spain was good at making people feel good. And he wasn’t even making his staff feel good in the way that the Netherlands swore he didn’t on official time, or the way he had heard France did all the time ( _why did people think pats on the back were such a strange thing?_ ).

Spain needed to find a way to make everyone happy in his hobby as well.

“I can help at the daycare!”

Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María blinked. “When did you get here?”

Spain wandered over to the windows and drew the floor-length curtains back. It had been ages since he’d been the one tasked with waking a monarch. At one point it had been something of a fashion; my Lord your nation calls you to begin the day, rise forth, your empire beseeches you, et cetera and so on. Nations like Prussia, who woke up obscenely early anyway, loved the responsibility. Nations like the Italy brothers, who were morally against it unless there was a better damn reason than kicking some kid off a mattress, did not. Spain had been ambivalent, thoughts somewhere between the two extremes. But no one had asked after his thoughts back then, unless it was ‘how much shall we take?’ or ‘did the feast disagree with you, My Kingdom?’

“Is there a crisis?”

Now they asked his opinions all the time. Sometimes it was only to try and cheat early election results out of him, but most of the humans he saw in his government knew better than that. More often it was to ask him about his weather. An eighty-year-old farmer from outside of La Herradura was convinced that winters would be unnaturally cold and damp if Spain sneezed more than three times in his presence.

His weather…

“Is it the banks?!”

A hand pulled at Spain’s shoulder, and he realized he’d stopped speaking mid-thought. “Banks?” He turned away from the darkness outside the windowpane. “Your Highness? Why aren’t you dressed?”

In the hallway, in the darkness, the clock struck four.

Oh.

Well, if they were both up anyway, “At first I wanted to help in the daycare they run in the parliament offices, for everyone’s children, because they’re so cute and small; not the daycare because it’s enormous, and not the offices because they’re even bigger, but the children. And I could sing to them, and tell them about sailing and fights and festivals, and read them stories and teach them how not to be ungrateful, because that’s never any cute at all, and then I could tell them what Cervantes was like when he was drunk, except maybe not if they’re the younger children, or I could tell them what he was like when _he_ was a child—”

Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María began to trudge back to bed. He loved his country, but it was too early for this.

All it took for his path to swerve in the other direction was a light smattering of coughs.

Every new ruler, whether born into the position or not, learned the hard way that their nation’s ‘illnesses’ could not be cured by common means. They could shove six pounds of cough drops down The United States of America’s throat and all that would come of it would be the lingering smell of fake cherries in the Oval Office for days. A hot cuppa or seventeen for England only meant that heaven help the poor idiot who thought she’d been first in line for the loo. National remedies were worthless. The cutting edge of medicine did nothing but waste public funds. A bath and a good long rest didn’t stop economic failure or political instability. It didn’t work that way around, but rulers still had to try. Try and fail.

Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María, however, had it worse than most. His kingdom had _moods_. Oh, certainly, they all had moods. They were loud, quiet, mercurial, potentially certifiably insane. But Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María was certain that he was the only king who had to deal with mass flooding whenever his kingdom was feeling glum in _addition_ to head colds when not enough people paid their taxes.

“Would you like a nightcap?” Rulers still had to try.

“N-n-,” a sneeze, “no. I don’t need a drink. I have a hobby.”

“You have a hobby.” The news wouldn’t have been newsworthy, except Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María had been the first person to support the ‘Get Our Nation Something Else to Do Because We Need to Concentrate Right Now and We Can’t While He’s in Here Teaching the Cabinet How to Drink Away Their Problems’ plan.

Spain nodded.

It was a good one.

Three nights later, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero turned on the weather section of the regional news because a note in his schedule said that he had to. When he saw why, he could have cried.

“And, ah, there are little cartoon clouds behind me on the monitor in front of me! But oh—oh can any of you see the monitor? If it’s in front of me, but behind the cameras… how does that work, anyway?”

A text came in from the minister of defense. She wanted to speak about something that was, doubtless, quite important, which obviously meant she hadn’t been ordered to see the broadcast. José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero wondered if telling her to catch the remaining few minutes was cruel. Was she pregnant again?

“…oh so _that_ ’s why you told me to change into a different shirt. Because the screen is green and—ah ha! I knew that! I’d hoped that a different _shade_ of green was alright to wear. Because who would ever go around wearing _that_ green… and Veneziano gave me that shirt, right, and he’s got really good taste. He said it looked nice on me, and I wanted to make a good impression…”

If she was pregnant he would leave her alone. José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had his morals, and traumatizing expecting mothers did not belong in them. If she _wasn’t_ pregnant again, however, he needed all the help he could get tuned in to this channel in order to figure out, somehow, what the hell was going on. Who had put the Kingdom in front of a camera?

Why the weather section?

“And the station manager is making that roll-y motion with her hands that means I don’t have much time left so ignore all that stuff behind me, your tomorrow is going to be perfect!”

Spain smiled, and winked, and nodded back to Juan the sportscaster, and José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had the horrible feeling that his Kingdom was going to be right.

The next day it did not rain. Anywhere. Anywhere inside the Kingdom of Spain, that was. The closest bout of bad weather was a ferocious storm that hovered just out of reach along a three-mile stretch of the border with France. Villagers in Saint-Étienne-de-Baïgorry could swear a faint hissing sound rushed through the air every time a stray cloud attempted to travel further south.

José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero did not despair.

Yet.

He’d learned a few things in his time; perhaps in his first few months he would have screamed and attempted to use his nation ( _his nation! A man! A man who didn’t look a day over_ 25 _!_ ) to control his weather patterns strategically. A precise amount of rain here, sun for the tourists there. It would have tempted anyone. Perhaps later in his first year he would have taken a drink of something strong and demanded ( _begged_ ) the Kingdom of Spain to never do it again. Whatever it was that he had done.

José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had learned since then. Maybe not a lot, but enough.

He called his Kingdom as soon as he was reasonably sure that his Kingdom would actually answer.

_RING_

“…Shouldn’t you be busy?”

José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero wondered what it meant, that he didn’t even get pleasantries anymore. “I—yes. I am very busy.”

“Then shouldn’t you be—?”

“How are you feeling?”

The voice on the other end of the line didn’t even pause. “Ah ha ha why would you be asking me something like that I’m perfectly,” sniffle, “fine I feel amazing, like I could lift a tree on my shoulder or defend my borders against France except I haven’t had to do that in a while because now we’re _modern_ , even though we were modern back then too and what do you know, I,” sniffle snort, “I have something I have to do now so it was fun talking to you bye!”

José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero forced his eyes to refocus. He had zero point seven seconds before Spain cheerfully fumbled with his cheerful phone before cheerfully turning it off.

“Not like that. Spain— how is your life?”

He waited.

“My life?”

“Yes!”

“You don’t know?”

“No, no!” José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Not that part of your life. How are _you_ ,” he fumbled. Men were not made for these kinds of talks, “how are you f- _feeling_? Your friends? Your. How is,” he grimaced. “Romano?”

For the record, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had no problems with Italy Romano, _philosophically_. The Kingdom of Spain and the Republic of Italy shared a close history ( _who along the Mediterranean **hadn’t** shared a close history with the Italian peninsula at some point or another?_ ). And the southern portion of the Republic of Italy held so many similarities to the Kingdom of Spain: both places were warm. Both spoke Romance languages. Both had dark hair. Both were men, somehow. Both wore their suits well. Both liked to dance with the bride at weddings.

They had plenty of similarities and José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had nothing at all against his male nation engaging in a romantic relationship with half of another male ( _how?_ ) nation. He’d signed his Kingdom into spot number three on that list. A man and another man? Nothing wrong with that! Italians were practically family! They couldn’t be accused of playing favorites with each other if Romano was only _half_ of a country!

No. José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero’s problems with Italy Romano existed purely on the personal level.

He hated that little—

“Romano?” A sneeze melted into a _sigh_. “Romano is wonderful! He said he could visit today even though his boss told him not to, because he’s never let his bosses push him around before so why start now, although I think he was lying there, a lot, because I remember him getting pushed around a lot, just not really by me. I remember _me_ getting pushed around a lot by _him_ , now that I think about it, hey…”

“Yes. Romano.” That obnoxious—

“But that doesn’t matter because he said he could _stay the night_ even, even though his bosses turn funny colors when he shouts that at them!”

“…Yes. He’s visiting.” That fucking—

“He is!”

The temperature climbed noticeably in José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero’s office. Well, shit. So Spain was happy then. Because of Romano. _Fantastic_. “For how long?”

Spain’s upbeat tone didn’t waver. “Are you asking because you want to ban him from entering me,” this time the choke came from José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero’s end, “again? I didn’t forget about that one time because when they wouldn’t let him past the gate he called me and then I got to tell them he was my husband, even though he said no in 2005, to get them to let him through! He forgot that he could just call his own government, or his brother, or you even if he wanted, and that wasn’t a very nice joke to play on him because Romano gets a little angry sometimes, you know, and I’m surprised he didn’t get angrier at me because at first he thought I’d done it and tried to break up with me and then he _did_ break up with me, and then he realized I’d called him my husband even when he isn’t, and then he got a little hysterical in public and then the guards let us go because it looked like Romano needed to lie down.”

Wait.

“So you knew about that.”

Chilly disapproval trickled down the line.

José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero shivered. “…it was a bureaucratic mistake that will never happen again. Tell Romano…” like hell was he apologizing to that goddamn… no. No, he wasn’t apologizing. With fifteen autonomous communities out of seventeen slated for massive droughts in the next three days? Romano would not get the pleasure of an apology. He’d be smug for weeks.

And José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero had learned, if not a lot, _enough_.

“Tell Romano about your new hobby. I’m sure he’d love to see that first broadcast of yours.”

He respectfully ended the call as fast as he fucking could, because he’d already heard the ‘but I was on the news before, don’t you remember, I saved Madrid!’ story a thousand times. His work here was done.

Later that night, the Kingdom of Spain let the studio people fuss over his tie ( _Romano had picked it out with lots of love and even more fussing than the studio people_ ). Spain let them dust down his jacket, brown to complement the green screen, and only sneezed when he breathed in a stray puff of makeup. Romano hadn’t liked having to stay behind while Spain went out to get filmed; he hadn’t liked it at all.

So he’d tagged along too.

Spain waved to where Romano stood in the little room full of monitors, to the side of the stage.

Romano didn’t wave back, busy fiddling with some of the buttons on his phone. Spain didn’t think that was exactly fair, except the expression on Romano’s face probably meant he was watching Spain’s earlier broadcast. Romano got a Look on his face whenever he looked at Spain.

It was a little bit softer, a little bit tenser. A little less guarded and a little more concerned.

It was a Look.

Spain waved again, before the camera in front of him began to blink red, and this time Romano waved back.

A lady with a clipboard snapped her fingers in front of Spain’s face. “And three!”

Three whats?

“Two!”

There were less of them now? How?

“One…”

Oh they were counting _down_. They should have said something about that.

Everyone in the studio focused on Spain. Romano focused on a tiny Spain on his phone’s tiny screen, but he was nearing the end of the recorded segment, and Spain never said anything useful in the first few minutes after he opened his mouth, so that was fine. He could catch up on the day before while Spain blubbered live, and then he’d hear all the important parts, and then they could get back to having time with each other. Just each other. And it would be fine. More than fine. _Fantastic_ —how had the idiot not noticed he was standing in front of a green screen; really?

Spain blinked in the studio lights. They were all shining right in his eyes, it felt like.

“Good evening!”

The cameras rolled, and Spain rattled off cold fronts and warm fronts and lots of temperatures in the thirties. The station manager looked really happy; happy until Spain’s phone began to ring.

“Oh, ah! Let me just- Romano you’re just over there, why are you calling—”

The happy little picture of a happy little sun over the happy little drawing of Barcelona turned into a cloud. The shining numbers hovering over Ibi began to drop.

_35_

_30_

_27_

_22_

_19_

“But I didn’t mean—I just liked the shirt, it was cute! Cute like Veneziano, you know how-- **No!** No that’s not what I meant—”

A swath of grey and blue swept over the row of computer monitors Spain was supposed to be getting his cues from. Behind them, in the small control room, an array of meteorologists wearing blue and grey and panic ( _“Mr. South Italy please don’t smash that!”_ ) paid half of their attention to the whirling numbers and calculations that _didn’t make any sense anymore_ and half to the incredibly displeased Italy Romano shouting in front of them.

“I mean, I meant what I said about him being cute, he’s always cute, and he likes giving me shirts, but,” Spain almost dropped his phone trying to explain, but caught it at the last second, just in time for cartoon lightning to break out over Madrid. “That wasn’t me saying he has better taste than you do, how do you even get that from that?”

Romano turned off his phone and stormed out of the control room, headed resolutely for the studio doors. He didn’t make eye contact with any of the cameramen, didn’t say anything to the gaping sportscaster who only moved out of his way just in time.

Spain dropped his phone. “That’s not what you said last night!”

The cameras swerved.

So did Romano. “Yeah well I that’s because I meant what I said last night you fucking idiot! N-not,” he stuttered, and when did Romano ever stutter, right, when he was overwhelmed, “not that I mean it now!”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Yes I do! I do! I just fucking said that I did!”

“But I love you!”

Romano stopped. “You sure have a shitty way of showing it!”

Spain stepped forward. “Your way is worse!”

That was a challenge Romano couldn’t let stand. “No, my way is better!”

“Mine is!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Soon, one step separated them, and Spain couldn’t see the monitor anymore. He couldn’t see anything, because it seemed like all the lights in the studio had decided to follow him away from the stage where the weather green screen was, and over to the doors where Romano had tried to leave. Three quarters of the cameras were still pointed at him, but some of them were on Romano now too, and that was strange.

“I’m not!”

Romano stomped his foot against the studio floor and grabbed Spain’s tie. “Shut up already.”

“Huh—”

\- - - - -

The Kingdom of Spain’s personal Public Relations Assistant sighed into her café solo. It was eight in the evening, she had gotten two hours of sleep in as many days, and she most likely wasn’t getting any more for the next twelve. Before her phone could begin buzzing, because she knew it would, she started to run out of the café and away from the TV screens showing her boss and his boyfriend ‘making up’ on national television.

_Men._

**Author's Note:**

> The image of Spain in front of the screen, on the phone, face becoming horrified, background becoming stormier and stormier while the people in the back room freak out was the only thing I was really trying to transmit with this fic when I started it. It was supposed to be short. A couple thousand words later _I don’t know what this is_. If you can tell me, please do.
> 
>  **The whole happiness thing:** it’s a headcanon I’ve been toying around with and became the major driving force of this fic. I don’t like it as much as Spain Controls the Weather, but then again how could I? Spain’s always cheerful and happy and making other people cheerful and happy and singing and happy little bluebirds, yeah? In most of the strips ( _he tries_ ), and in **loads** of fic. It’s usually Spain to the emotional rescue! Well. _What if that were a bad thing?_ Like, no matter how you were feeling, no matter how you needed to feel, once Spain walked into the room you were content. Imagine what would happen if he spent all his time in government offices. Or hospitals, or panic rooms, or banks.
> 
>  **Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María:** current King of Spain. I used full names for him and the PM because why the hell would you waste the chance to use these names? I wish my name were half as complicated.
> 
>  **José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero:** current Prime Minister of Spain, although not for long. What’s his personality actually like? Dunno. Would he have a Super Grudge against Romano? Hell if I know; but this way is certainly entertaining. I started writing something about taking away diplomatic visas in that paragrentence of doom before I remembered _right, Schengen, shit_. But I kept the ‘you tried to get one over on him but in the end I really won because I got to call him my husband so there’ because. I don’t need reasons for that kind of thing. B\
> 
>  **The defense minister:** actually is a lady, and was actually pregnant when elected. Also I’m slightly frightened of her based purely on her Wikipedia picture. Which is funny because I think I make that same facial expression 90% of the time.
> 
>  **I’m surprised I only learned about this tonight considering I live in this state:** same-sex marriage is now legal in Washington if you or your partner are a member of the Suquamish tribe.
> 
>  **café solo:** espresso. I don’t know about coffee culture in Spain, really, but if it’s more a morning thing, let’s just say that her morning has sadly already begun, and will stay begun for another day or two after she hears that ‘making up’ on camera turned into ‘shirts off’ on camera rather quickly. Hey. Cameras haven’t been around for that long, how is Romano supposed to remember there’s all of this fucking technology around all the time when it’s so goddamned quiet? Courtiers used to know how to keep their fucking mouths shut until you were out of the room, no matter how many of his pants buttons you ruined.
> 
>  **that was a dramatic shouting match there:** yeah. I figure any established relationship between the two of them wouldn’t be rocky all the time. But it wouldn’t be smooth by any stretch, and this way is funny.


End file.
